HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Tuesday, September 25, 2007 The view from outside the house On the day of the sunset, you sat on the roof of your house, seeking out the view of my house. The night lights of Shanghai rose to a sob. On early mornings in Ithaca, the deer calling, call me to the window. I meet the view from my house like a girl in love all over again. In search of kites, we walked down the boulevard, and found none. Left the square filled with the overwhelming presence of unflown kites. In search of the creek behind my house, I step outside. The trees gather to hold me in their presence. In the view from my house, the wrestlers who live next door are playing football with beercans again. I’m washing my feet at the creek behind my house. I live here now. There are fewer leaves where you are. Soon there will be none. Winter will lead you from a balcony overgrown with cigarette butts to make you look out from other windows. I’m fine. I’m settling into the poem I’ve always wanted to write. That poem is surrounded a creek, overgrown with trees, tanned brown with the end of summer, inhabited by rabbits, groundhogs, and other secrets. posted by dawn # 3:23 PM Comments: Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] for one part of the paper i have to write, i had t... to all coldplay lovers, announcement! excerpts from various poems i am working on was supposed to do my work, instead i ended up loo... i said, congratulations, i think your baby is beau... the people in my life drive me crazy and i love them an old classmate sent me a short message. i will h... way down upon the suwannee river i don't believe in the power of poetry. i think po... saussure and classes, dancing, made me happy today... [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The view from outside the house

On the day of the sunset,
you sat on the roof of your house,
seeking out the view of my house.
The night lights of Shanghai
rose to a sob.
On early mornings in Ithaca, the deer calling,
call me to the window.
I meet the view from my house like a girl in love all over again.

In search of kites,
we walked down the boulevard,
and found none. Left the square filled
with the overwhelming presence
of unflown kites.
In search of the creek behind my house,
I step outside.
The trees gather to hold me in their presence.

In the view from my house, the wrestlers who live next door
are playing football with beercans again.
I’m washing my feet at the creek behind my house.
I live here now.
There are fewer leaves where you are.
Soon there will be none. Winter will lead you from
a balcony overgrown with cigarette butts
to make you look out from other windows.
I’m fine. I’m settling
into the poem I’ve always wanted
to write. That poem is surrounded a creek,
overgrown with trees, tanned brown with the end of summer,
inhabited by rabbits, groundhogs, and other secrets.

posted by dawn # 3:23 PM

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